


Everything The War Calls Out Of Us

by cocking_about, foxtales



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Explicit Language, Gen, Jeremy Clarkson in general, Violence, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-23
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocking_about/pseuds/cocking_about, https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtales/pseuds/foxtales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeremy laid back as well, his head spinning a bit and not just from his wound. Greasy, tasteless food, toxic mud, an enemy that could stumble across them at any moment, seam squirrels and rats and flies and stench, and milk <i>tablets</i>, for god's sake. He wasn't a religious man, but he found himself praying they found the Allied lines, and soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for and originally posted to the rpf_big_bang challenge on lj in October 2009. Many thanks to tarteaucitron for her excellent beta work and Britpick (even though Top Gear's hardly her favourite), and elmathelas and msilverstar for the additional and invaluable help in the beta department. Any errors left are solely the fault of the authors.

  **20 November 1917 SW of Cambrai, the Somme, France.**

James heard the distinct squelch of limbs being pulled free of the infernal mud. "Bugger," he muttered. Someone was coming in his direction and he had no way to know whether it was friend or foe without giving away his own position. He flattened himself against the side of the trench and shouldered his rifle, ready to defend himself should it become necessary. He just hoped that in the darkness, he'd see the other man before he was spotted himself.

Seconds later, a flailing body came sliding down the muddy slope and splashed into the filthy, fetid water in the bottom of the trench.

"Fucking 'ell!" came a distinctly English voice.

"Shut up, you idiot," James whispered fiercely, reaching down to help haul the man up to huddle beside him.

" _May?_ "

James peered at the man next to him, astonished that a fellow officer from his own company had literally stumbled upon him, and that it was his mate Hammond, no less. "Christ, Hammond, wasn't your unit in the middle of Bourlon Wood? How far have you come?" They spoke in low, hushed voices.

"Jesus, May, I don't believe it's you." Hammond stared at him, then shook his head. "You couldn't navigate your way out of a potato sack, could you? You're headed in the wrong direction, man."

"Bugger," James said again, frowning. "I was certain I had the right of it."

"Mate, there could be a lighted sign saying _'Allies this way!'_ with an arrow pointing to our lines and you'd bypass it somehow," Hammond murmured, chuckling. "Nice digs you have here, by the way. Redecorated recently?"

James suppressed a snort. "Courtesy of Big Bertha," he breathed. The German howitzers had churned up the landscape until it was a morass of mud pock-marked with shell holes. He straightened his flat-brimmed steel helmet and his fingers automatically wiped the mud away from the bolt of his rifle.

"Ah. Lovely girl, Bertha." Hammond's grin gleamed in the dark. "Ample arse and a great pair of--"

"Yes, yes, all right," James whispered irritably.

Hammond's grin widened. "Would you prefer to hear about the long, thick barrel, leaping forward and shooting its load--"

"Cock," James muttered.

"Well, yes, obviously." Hammond snickered quietly.

James huffed a laugh, suddenly glad Hammond had, against all the odds, managed to find him amongst the sea of shell holes, fox holes, and craters littering the edge of the battered Bourlon Wood. "I can't believe they let you in the army."

" _Let_ me?" Hammond whispered, scratching at the collar of his uniform before adjusting his pack with one hand and a twitch of his shoulder. " _Begged_ me, they did."

James held up his hand, and both men went silent, hearing straining.

***

**20 November 1917 10 Miles NW of Cambrai, France.**

Jeremy craned his neck for a good look as he flew his RE8 over the German III Corps. They were getting entirely too close to Cambrai, where they would resupply their beleaguered troops. He checked his fuel level and swore loudly. There were other planes in the area, but none anywhere near this particular line. He didn't really have the fuel to do much--he'd already be landing on fumes as it was--but he couldn't just let them march unhindered into Cambrai, not when his own countrymen would be the ones who suffered. He turned his head to the side and bellowed to the cockpit behind him, "Tanner, we're going to have to--"

The first shots hit the upper back fuselage and Jeremy swore again as the plane shuddered. "Tanner!" When there was no answer, he took the chance and turned his upper body around to find his observer slumped forward against the Scarff ring.

"Oh, fucking _hell!_ " he shouted in rage as the next volley of ammunition fire from the ground caught the undercarriage and the bottom of the rudder. Another line of fire caught his left wing, and when he was certain that he wouldn't be making it back, he made a split-second decision. "Think I'm not going to take a few of you bastards with me? You've shot down the wrong fucking Englishman."

He turned the plane and made a low run over the line again, heedless of the shots that peppered the plane as he got nearer. He got as close as he could and began his own strafing run, his .303-inch Vickers machine gun churning away into the mass of humanity and metal on the ground below him. Once he'd done what damage he could, he turned in the direction of the Allied forces and rode the disabled plane down.

***

"Fuck," Richard whispered, elbowing May in the ribs as the voices carried clearly across the crater-strewn battlefield again. _German_. "What do you want to do?"

"Well, we can hardly ask them directions," May replied quietly, as another spate of German echoed around them.

"Listen. They're not even trying to keep their voices down."

"That certainly doesn't bode well for us," May muttered. "More than likely, their counterattack has pushed back our advance from this morning."

"And now we're behind enemy lines." Dread sliced through Richard even as he said the words. Behind the lines with who knows how many miles between them and the nearest friendly forces. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "What do you want to do?" he repeated flatly.

"Stay ahead of the Germans until we find the line," May said, shrugging one shoulder. "How hard can it be?"

***

Jeremy came to groggily, automatically stifling a groan. He knew it was crucial to be quiet, although for the life of him, he couldn't quite remember why. After a moment, he opened his eyes.

The sight of the torn canvas, snapped wire, and splintered wood covering him brought his memory trickling slowly back. He'd strafed the German III Corps and then, his plane trailing smoke and flame, had crash-landed somewhere northwest of Graincourt. He hadn't expected to survive; it was rather a shock to discover that, barring a very sore head and a bullet wound to his leg, he seemed to be in one piece. "Fucking Fritz, can't even kill me properly," he muttered under his breath as he began disentangling himself from the wreckage. "Goddamn Boche bastards."

He shifted the remains of one wing out of the way and with a start came face-to-face with the blank-eyed corpse of his observer, Sergeant Tanner. Jeremy let out a shaky breath and reached out to close Tanner's eyes. "You're well out of it, lad," he murmured, then turned to the side and vomited.

***

"Don't _say_ that," Hammond hissed, alarmed. "The last time you said 'how hard can it be?', I ended up at the bottom of a pile of bodies, and I was the only one that still had all four limbs."

"It wasn't my fault Colonel Anderson didn't know his arse from his artillery," James grumbled, although quietly.

"No, but it was your fault we went west instead of east," Hammond accused. "I don't know how you can find your own fucking cock with both hands, sometimes. Look, we're just south of Bourlon Wood, right?"

"What's left of it, yes."

"All right. I was looking at the maps the other day with Captain Kinney. If we go..." He closed his eyes, obviously trying to call up a mental image of the map of the area. "If we head west-south-west, we'll either come across the 51st, who can tell us where the rest of our fucking battalion got to, or we'll hit the Canal du Nord, and we can follow it back to our lines."

James nodded and absently scratched the seam down the side of his trousers. "Glad the guns haven't rattled your noggin yet. I'd say we have two hours before we'll need to hunker down again. Think you can get us around that working party we heard?"

"I am stealth personified," Hammond declared. He eased off his pack and prepared to climb up to the rim of the crater. "If I get my head shot off, the coast is _not_ clear."

"However shall I decode that signal?" James muttered. "Idiot."

"James," he said sweetly. "I didn't know you cared."

"What I do care about is having your brain, however tiny it may be, splashed all over my person, Hammond, so be careful for God's sake."

Hammond shook his head, still grinning, before biting his lip and lifting himself up to poke his head over the rim. There were no gunshots or German voices coming in their direction, so James supposed the coast was indeed clear, a fact which Hammond verified as he slid back down.

"I didn't see anyone out there, though we can still hear them, so my guess is that they're in the trenches sticking their toothpicks into bodies to make sure they're dead. We're going to have to get out of here quickly. And May--you're not going to like this, but we're going to have to muddy ourselves up so our skin doesn't give us away."

*** 

Recovering slowly, Jeremy wiped his mouth, then pulled the scarf from around his neck and wrapped it around his left thigh to cover the bullet hole there. He knew he had other wounds, but that one was the worst and most immediate. His head hurt like the dickens, but he had no way to know where or how bad that injury was, or even if there were more than one. He rummaged in his jacket's inner breast pocket and realised his flask had somehow survived the crash as well; he took a long and grateful swallow of gin.

Thus fortified, he took a deep breath, pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and very nearly vomited again. He stayed still, dizzy from the pain, until his vision cleared again. Another deep breath and he pulled himself to his feet, stumbling badly as his left leg gave out. He caught himself on the twisted fuselage and leaned heavily for a moment, gathering his strength. There was no option but to move, so move he would.

Jeremy didn't like leaving Tanner exposed, but there was no help for it. He was in no shape to dig even the shallowest of graves, and likely there were already Germans out looking for the plane in case of survivors. He grabbed and pocketed one of Tanner's identification tags and his pistol, then stumbled into the darkness.

***

James smeared mud on his cheek with distaste. "I'm probably rubbing some poor bugger's putrid innards all over my face. This is the most foul, disgusting--"

"Yes, yes," Hammond cut him off. "Best not to think about it. Here, you missed a spot." He scooped up a gout of slimy mud and slathered it along James's jawline.

"Thanks ever so," James muttered darkly.

Hammond snorted. "Would you rather Fritz find you? Apparently in their POW camps you're fed dirty water, mouldy black bread, and Belgian babies."

"Utter bollocks."

"Undoubtedly, but I'd rather not find out personally, thank you very much." Hammond shouldered his pack again and picked up his rifle, making sure the firing action was clear of mud. "Ready, old man?" He held out his hand.

James took it, giving it a firm shake. "Ready, old chap. Tally ho, et cetera." He began crawling up to the lip of the crater.

Hammond laughed almost soundlessly as he struggled to follow James up the slimy slope. "'Tally ho', he says. What a fucking twat."

*** 

Jeremy crawled on, exhausted, doing his best to keep his wounded leg out of the mud; God only knew what horrific diseases he'd catch from the blood-soaked, corpse-strewn, rat-infested sludge. There were many reasons he'd chosen the Royal Flying Corps rather than the vast British Army, and not having to live mired to his knees in filth and mud every day was very near the top of the list.

He'd been on the move for almost twenty-four hours. A bit of sleep had been snatched in a shallow shell-hole when the daylight was at its brightest, but for the most part luck had been with him. He heard the Allied heavy artillery off to his left and German machine guns behind and to his right, but he seemed to be alone in this corner of the apocalyptic landscape. It had been incredibly slow going, but Jeremy was as confident as he could be that he was headed towards the Canal du Nord, and from his flight over the landscape before the crash, he knew that was where he needed to be. He'd already come about a mile, and by his reckoning, he had a just under a mile or so left to go. With any luck, he'd be at the Canal before dawn.

A star shell lit up the sky, and Jeremy froze. The bright white light picked every contour out in detail, and the smallest movement became obvious. He strained his hearing, listening for a patrol, but couldn't catch anything. After the shell light had faded, he flattened himself to the muddy earth and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

 

For the last few hours every movement Jeremy had made had been accompanied by muffled grunts and groans. His eyes felt gritty and burned and there wasn't anywhere on his entire body that didn't hurt in some way. He wasn't sure how much further he had to go to reach the canal, but the sky was lightening and he was going to have to rest, or he'd get caught out in the open with no energy to fight, should it come to that.

No man had ever been so glad to find a shelled-out trench in his life as he was when he almost toppled into the ruins of one. The metallic tang of blood and the sickly sweet scent of death hung in the humid air, and he was very nearly sick again. He managed to find a crater up-wind of the trench itself and huddled as best he could in what meagre shelter it offered him, trying very hard not to look at the body that was half in and half out of the crater. He was too weak to move it, at any rate.

He leaned against the muddy slope and closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't be discovered by the enemy whilst he was sleeping.

***

"May, you're going to get us killed," Richard hissed. "It's almost fucking dawn, we should be in that goddamned trench!"

"I'm not spending the day up to my waist in rotting corpses," May insisted.

"In another twenty minutes we're going to _be_ rotting corpses, you arse!"

"No wonder the brass hats back at Amiens sent you up to the front lines, if you go into such hysterics at the slightest difficulty," May smirked.

" _Hysterics?_ " Richard squeaked, quietly for such a high sound. He wanted nothing more than to shout at him, and he couldn't even raise his voice. "You bloody bastard, we got sent up here because _you_ went on a rant in front of General fucking Pritchard! Now can we please get into that damned trench before the Hun decide to go for a morning stroll?"

"No, but we can get into this shell hole," May whispered calmly. He slithered over the lip of the crater, rolling to the side to prevent Hammond landing boot-first on his head when he slid down. They came to rest side by side. "See? Only a couple of landowners in here, instead of twenty." He gestured to the body closest to them, stretched out on the side of the small shell hole. "He doesn't even pong yet."

"That's because he's not dead yet, you daft fucking squaddie," the body groaned, and rolled over.

"Christ on a toasting fork!" Richard scrambled up on his elbows.

May had immediately raised his rifle, but the accent and the smooth-fronted RFC uniform made him slowly lower it again. "Christ, what the hell are you doing here, man?"

"Fucking Boche bastards shot down my bus." The pilot tried to shift his position, but the movement clearly caused him pain, and he hissed through his teeth. "You two get lost, did you?"

"Part of the assault on Bourlon Wood," May said shortly.

The man nodded. "Lucky Tommies, then."

Richard began working his way around the slope of the crater towards the pilot. "Lucky, my arse," he said, digging his boots into the clay mud for purchase. He pulled out his first aid kit. "If we were lucky, would we be _here_?"

"Could be worse," May pointed out, settling back again. "At least we're not in a stiff's paddock."

Richard carefully untied the rudimentary bandage from around the wounded man's thigh. "Looks like you got yourself a Blighty one, then, eh?"

"I bloody hope so," he muttered. "I haven't seen home in six months. Fucking green pilots won't stay alive long enough for me to get some leave."

Richard dug around in his belt pouch and produced a small tin. "Have any alcohol on you?"

"Why?" The question was asked with suspicion.

"Because unless you want to risk losing this leg, that wound needs to be cleaned," he said reasonably.

The pilot swore and pulled out his flask with a look of disgust. "I'd at least like to know who I'm giving the last of my gin to," he said pointedly.

"Sorry, mate. Lieutenant Richard Hammond, and that's Lieutenant James May. We're with the Prince of Wales' Own, West Yorks. Wherever they may now be."

"Lieutenant Jeremy Clarkson," he muttered. "Number 12 Squadron. What's left of it."

"This'll hurt, but keep quiet, Clarkson," Richard warned. "I've come this far without meeting up with Fritz; I'd like to keep it that way." He gave Clarkson a minute to brace himself, and then poured the gin over the leg wound. The man stiffened and groaned, but made no further noise. Working quickly, Richard opened his tin of iodoform, sprinkling it generously over the injury and the surrounding tissue, and then opened one of the packets containing gauze and a length of bandage. He bound up Clarkson's leg tightly, then lightly and carefully dirtied the bright white cotton with a bit of mud.

"Any others, then?"

Clarkson held out his left arm and fingered the tear in his uniform just over his bicep. "One winged me. It's not bad."

Richard tore the fabric to see the wound better. "I dare say you don't even notice that one, not compared to the leg, eh?" Protected by Clarkson's uniform, the wound was fairly clean, so Richard merely sprinkled more iodoform on it and quickly bandaged it up. A swift, deft job with his sewing kit roughly repaired the uniform to keep the arm clean, but also to hide the bright white bandage.

"Somewhere on my head as well. It bloody hurts, but I've no idea whether it's only got bumped in the crash or if something else is there."

Richard nodded and moved to look at Clarkson's head. "May, do us a favour and hold the kit, will you?"

May came to kneel next to Richard, looking down at Clarkson's head. The first wound was obvious--a furrow dug through his scalp from behind his left ear up to the mid-back of his head.

"Fucking hell, mate, you copped a packet, you did," Richard exclaimed, his eyes widening as he examined the trail the bullet had taken. He looked up to meet May's disbelieving gaze.

"What?" Clarkson demanded, looking back and forth between the two of them.

"You've a furrow up the back of your head, Clarkson," May said, shaking his head. "In fact, I'd wager that if you weren't the luckiest bastard in this war, you'd not only have got yourself a plot in the rest camp, you'd have no head left on your shoulders. Christ, I can see your skull in places."

Clarkson immediately reached up, and Richard slapped his dirty hand away. "Don't you even think about it. You'll have to wait until we get back to our own before you get to see your beauty mark."

"You've also managed a lovely bump to the head. Quite the collector you are," May said, poking gently at the large lump on Clarkson's head.

"Ow, you fucking foot-slogger!" Clarkson hissed. "If you hadn't noticed, that's my head you're poking at."

"Keep it down, both of you," Richard whispered with some heat. Both Clarkson and May fell silent. Richard looked at his dwindling supply of iodoform with a feeling of foreboding and then back at Clarkson. "Look, Clarkson, I can't really do anything else for you. There's not enough iodoform to cover it all, and I think we need to keep what's left for the rest of the trek."

"Fine. More than likely, I've already been fatally infected with some form of rot, what does one more day matter?"

"Doing it up a bit dramatic, don't you think?" May queried, eyebrows raised.

"Says the man with no open wounds that have been dragged through this infernal mud," Clarkson muttered.

"Says the man who's only dealt with this 'infernal mud' for one day," May scoffed.

"Says--"

"For the love of God, _please_ ," Richard interjected, imploring. "I don't want to have the abandon the pair of you to your fate at the hands of the Hun, but I will; I _swear_ I will."

Clarkson tried to muffle his laughter with his sleeve.

"You're mad," May said, until he looked over at Richard and laughter bubbled up in his throat.

"You're _both_ mad," Richard said, shaking his head, knowing his resigned hangdog look was the cause of their amusement.

Clarkson attempted to copy Richard's expression, his eyes widening as the corners of his mouth drew downward, but when May cackled, he couldn't hold it and guffawed before clapping his hands over his mouth.

"Oh, for fuck's _sake_ ," Richard hissed, only half joking. "Both of you shut your fucking gobs right now, or I'll shoot you myself." He re-packed what was left of his first aid kit, stowing it in the breast pocket of his tunic. "Clarkson, when was the last time you ate something?"

"What day is it?" he asked wryly, but he had lowered his voice.

"Right." Richard scratched at his stomach, then dug in his pack, pulling out two tins, one round and one square-ish. "I've got one meat and veg, and a tin of bully beef. May, what have you got left?"

"One tin of emergency rations, one hard biscuit, and some milk tablets."

"A fucking feast, to be sure," Clarkson muttered. "Not to sound ungrateful, but how are you chaps even still _alive_ , having to eat that godawful shit?"

May shrugged. "It's better than a bullet in the head," he said philosophically.

"As unappetising as it may be to you, Clarkson, if you want to make it back to our lines, you're going to need something in your belly. Meat and veg, or bully beef?" Richard held them out, waiting.

Clarkson glared at them, but finally grumbled, "Meat and veg."

Richard put the bully beef back in his pack and pulled out his service knife. Undoing one button on his tunic, he wiped the knife on the relatively clean interior, then stabbed the side of the tin several times, creating a long slit big enough to bend open. He wiped his knife again, this time on his puttees, and put it back in its holster. Taking the spoon that May held out, he scooped up some of the stew-like rations and cheerfully ate it before passing the tin and spoon to Clarkson.

Clarkson sniffed the contents of the tin and recoiled. "Do they ever mention what _kind_ of meat, by chance?" He ate two spoonfuls, though, before passing it on to May.

"Nix. And we don't ask." Richard grinned. He went to do up the button on his tunic again, then looked more closely at the material. "Damn. Guess I'd best spend some time chatting whilst you blokes are having a kip." He laughed quietly at the look on Clarkson's face. "Small game hunting. Seam squirrels, they're the plague of the trenches. Well, those and rats." He ran his thumb along the seam of his jacket, sending lice scurrying in all directions. Richard caught several between thumb and forefinger and pinched tightly to kill them. "Once we reach our lines I'll burn them out, but I'm not risking lighting matches here."

May and Richard had both eaten some of the rations, but left the lion's share for Clarkson. May also portioned out the hard biscuit, half to Clarkson and a quarter each for himself and Richard. When they'd all finished eating, May crumpled the tin up and put it back in his pack. "No sense in advertising the fact that there's a bunch of Tommies about. Clarkson, Hammond, get some sleep. I'll take first watch."

"Don't mind if I do," Richard grinned, and then yawned. "I'm fucking chin-strapped, I am. Night-night, chaps." He jammed the heels of his boots into the mud several times to make a bit of a shelf so he wouldn't slide down the slope, tipped his steel helmet over his face, and was asleep in moments.

 

Jeremy laid back as well, his head spinning a bit and not just from his wound. Greasy, tasteless food, toxic mud, an enemy that could stumble across them at any moment, seam squirrels and rats and flies and stench, and milk _tablets_ , for god's sake. He wasn't a religious man, but he found himself praying they found the Allied lines, and soon. He was exhausted, though, and a few minutes later, was dead to the world.

 

When Richard and May were both awake next--the changing of the guard so that May could grab a precious few hours of sleep--they decided not to wake Clarkson up during the day unless they absolutely had to do so. He needed the rest more than anything else right now.

"His leg is badly off," Richard said, grimacing as he shook his head.

"It's a miracle he made it this far; I doubt he'll be going much further than this, though. Shame that. I truly enjoyed his ability to mock you, Hammond."

"And I very much enjoyed the way he verbally sparred with you, May."

"You call that pitiful display sparring? That was me coddling him because he's injured," May scoffed.

"Ah yes," Richard replied, grinning. "How sporting of you, James, to let the sick man 'win'."

May flipped Richard two fingers whilst Richard laughed softly. "I'm for getting some sleep," he said, not even bothering to move, simply leaning his head back and tipping down his helmet.

 

Four hours later, James woke. Exhausted as he was, it took him a few moments to come to full awareness. Eventually he sat up and nodded at Hammond, who lay back, closed his eyes, and was asleep again within minutes. If there was one thing a bloke learnt in the British Army, it was to sleep wherever and whenever one could.

James looked over at Clarkson again, thinking how amazing it was that he had come so far. The Germans should have had him long before he'd reached this trench--either at the site of the crash or at some point as Clarkson had been dragging his tall body through the mud and God only knew whatever else. The man had to have left a trail as he'd gone, but apparently Fritz had ignored it. He and Hammond had been lucky as well, able to keep their heads down and out of sight of the enemy as they passed by them--sometimes within a few yards.

Luck may have been with Clarkson in getting away, but not with his injuries. The sides of the entrance wound had been an angry red; Hammond had cleaned it as best he could, considering their circumstances, but that wasn't saying much. And that wasn't the only one. Hammond had held back on using the last of the powder and that didn't bode well at all. If it were up to Clarkson's will to survive, he would most assuredly pull through. Unfortunately, his body was beginning to show signs of betraying him on that count.

James shook his head and wondered how much longer any of their luck would hold.

 

Jeremy woke with a start, just managing to suppress his instinctive reaction to shout. He discovered Hammond leaning over him, shaking his arm, and a murky twilight seemed to have fallen.

"Come on, time to rise and shine, you lumbering bus jockey," Hammond said.

All at once every ache in Jeremy's body clamoured to be heard, his head was pounding, and his leg felt like it was on fire. He let out a quiet groan.

"Still amongst the living, then," May said, rather over-optimistically, Jeremy thought. "Take a few minutes to pull yourself together, we'll have a bite to eat, and then we'll be off. Hammond thinks we'll make the canal tonight, and if we have any luck at all, we might even find some friendly faces before dawn."

"As long as the bloody Boche haven't pushed on to Paris," Hammond snorted, looking down at him. "How are you feeling, man?"

Jeremy struggled to sit up. "Like I've been shot and crashed my Harry Tate and crawled eighty bloody miles through waist-deep mud--"

Hammond suddenly held up a hand to indicate silence, and listened intently. Jeremy couldn't hear a thing, but Hammond hissed, "It's a Fokker. Jerry up!"

May threw himself face first into the mud and assumed an inelegant sprawl, his arms tucked underneath him. Jeremy didn't have time to protest being manhandled as Hammond shoved him over onto his stomach and put his own helmet over the back of Jeremy's head, before flattening himself into a similarly awkward position as May and putting his pack on his head.

"Give a chap some warning before you push him face first into the muck," Jeremy complained, albeit in a whisper, from under the steel brim of the helmet.

"Just keep still and do your best to look deceased," May advised in a soft voice. "They only do target practice if they're bored, so if we're lucky, some of your mates are up there to keep them occupied."

"Target practice?" Jeremy repeated, sickly sure he already knew what that meant.

"Shooting the bodies on the ground to make sure they're dead," Hammond said grimly. "Hopefully the light's too far gone for them to see much down here."

Jeremy lay perfectly motionless, his heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest. He'd never done it before--this so-called 'target practice'--but he'd heard other blokes talking in the aerodrome's mess hall and knew it was occasionally done by his own side as well. He vowed that no one in his squadron would _ever_ joke about 'target practice' again.

The sound grew closer, and it was soon obvious that their run of good luck had ended; the _clackata-clackata_ of the MG08 machine guns could be heard as the planes began to strafe the ground around them. Jeremy didn't think he'd ever forget his fear as high-calibre bullets tore into the mud around them, nor the sight of the body near them twitching and jerking as it was hit multiple times. He felt sick, but managed to keep it together.

He closed his eyes and prayed to survive this nightmare he'd found himself in. He easily included Hammond and May in his desperate plea to the Almighty, wanting all of them to get out of this horrific situation as safely and quickly as possible. He kept his eyes closed, even though the sight of that spasming corpse replayed itself in his mind. He thought he'd see this day in his dreams for the rest of his life--however long that turned out to be.

He felt the sudden pull of cloth as a bullet tore through his trouser leg, and Hammond's helmet deflected another with a metallic _clang_. As suddenly as it had started, though, the shooting stopped as the planes flew out of range.

Jeremy let out a muted sound that was suspiciously close to a whimper. He could only hope he had muffled it enough against his arm that neither Hammond nor May had heard it.

 

Richard breathed a sigh of relief as the planes continued on rather than returning for another strafing run. Had the pilots decided to circle back around, there would have been no hope for them. He pushed himself up slightly, the thick mud oozing off his filthy uniform.

"All right?" he asked the other two men softly.

"I've been better," May replied, sitting up and fingering holes in his uniform over the shoulder and arm. "I've been pipped, but better a scratch than a hole."

"That was entirely too fucking close," Clarkson said quietly as he handed Hammond's helmet back. He ran his hand over the new hole in his trouser leg, just above where they tightened in at the knee.

"If we're lucky, that'll be the only air patrol in the area," Richard said evenly, "but the closer we get to the lines, the more frequent the patrols--both land and air."

May nodded and then crawled over to Clarkson. "Heard the tin hat catch one," he said as he examined Clarkson's head. "Blast it, there's dirt in the furrow," he added, sighing.

"That's my plot being dug in the stiff's paddock, then, isn't it?" Clarkson said, matter of fact.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," May said dryly.

"Don't be melodramatic, says the man without God only knows what sorts of infections running through him," Clarkson muttered under his breath.

"Oi, knock it off," Richard ordered when May opened his mouth to retort in kind. "We have enough to deal with without the two of you bickering like an old married couple."

May spluttered indignantly whilst Clarkson snorted, "I have a wife already, thanks ever so much."

"If you want to see her again, I would suggest you get smart and shut the fuck up."

Clarkson immediately sobered, clearly thinking about not seeing his wife again. "I have a letter for her, should I not make it back from this alive. Please, if it comes down to it, would one of you send it for me?"

"We'll just have to make certain it doesn't come down to that," May said quietly whilst he awkwardly patted Clarkson's shoulder.

Clarkson nodded, looking down and blowing out a heavy breath. "All right then, chaps--onward it is."

Richard nodded and saw May do so as well. They all got on their hands and knees and began to crawl in the direction of the canal, trying as best they could to keep from looking at any of the freshly mutilated corpses.

 

"It's this way," Richard hissed, pointing ten degrees to the left.

"It's not, you bloody trench rat, it's _this_ way," Clarkson argued _sotto voce_ , gesturing twenty degrees to the right.

"No offence, old chap," May put in mildly to Jeremy, "But you've taken a bullet to the head. Besides, Hammond's sense of direction in this wasteland is uncanny. Trust him."

"'Trust him', he says," Clarkson grumbled, falling in behind Richard again as they continued to crawl forwards through what had been the British rear lines until a few days ago.

They were approaching the German reserve lines, though, and Richard was leading them away from the obvious troop placements as best he could, whilst not going too far out of their way. If they didn't reach the canal before dawn, their chances of survival--or at least of evading capture--were next to nil. Luckily the Germans were busy digging in and moving up their guns under cover of darkness, leaving few snipers on the lookout. The patrols were mostly concerned with watching for Allied counterattacks and raiding parties, and the three Englishmen were able to snake their way through the gaps between the companies.

Their progress was slow--it felt like the Germans were everywhere--but they reached the canal at a little past three in the morning. They picked their way down the embankment to the water, searching as best they could in the darkness for trip wires or other kinds of traps.

Fifteen long minutes later, they were crouched in the churned-up mud at the side of the canal grinning at each other like fools, shaking hands and congratulating each other.

May looked down at the water. "I've been looking forward to a bath for a _week_."

"I know, May," Richard said softly, "We've done well just getting here, but we're not in the clear yet, so a swim isn't an option at this point."

"Well, where would _you_ suggest crossing, then, Hammond?" Clarkson asked.

"If I recall correctly, there should be a bend about a mile from here. We should do it there."

"A mile?" May demanded quietly. "How many more Germans do you think we can evade, Hammond? No, we should go here and do it whilst Clarkson still has the strength."

"They'll be able to hear us if we cross here," Richard argued. "At any point and time, the fucking Hun could come and there we'd be, sitting ducks in the middle of the water. Is that how you want this to end?"

"No, but I also don't want this to end with fucking Fritz putting a bullet in my head and marching you off to one of their prison camps," Clarkson replied. "And May is right--I don't have much left in the tank. I don't know that I can make another mile and then cross the water. If you're dead set on it, perhaps it's for the best if we part ways here."

"I'm crossing here," May put in stubbornly.

Richard's eyes narrowed as he frowned. "You can't just cross, James, it could be deep here; if that's the case, Clarkson still may not make it across."

"Or it could still be deep a mile down at your theoretical bend and then he won't make it across for certain."

They heard a soft splash and turned to see Clarkson wading into the water.

"God-damned bus jockey," Richard muttered whilst May laughed under his breath.

"Looks like Clarkson has made up our minds for us," May said, still grinning as he turned for the water. "Do join us, Hammond."

Undecided, Richard stood and debated with himself for a few moments over crossing now or pressing on by himself. At the least, he knew he had to wait another few minutes before he crossed to ensure the other two had made it to the other side--assuming he could spot them in a brief wash of moonlight as the clouds rolled past. They certainly wouldn't be able to send him a signal that they'd made it.

His eyes slid shut as he heard the approach of German soldiers. He clenched his hands into tight fists, knowing it was up to him to distract the soldiers, however many there were. He quietly blew out a tense breath and as slowly as he could manage, poked his head up to check out the situation. He was relieved to discover there were only two; that was within his capabilities.

He crept towards the two soldiers who were sharing a smoke and talking quietly together. Richard couldn't believe his luck when one headed back towards the encampment. He waited, silent and unmoving, until the smoking soldier wandered closer and turned towards the water. Richard could tell the moment the soldier's attention sharpened; he stood up straighter and reached for the weapon that had been hanging loosely across his back and shoulder. Richard reckoned one of his mates had been spotted, so he quickly and quietly moved behind the soldier, pulled out his pistol and brought it down--hard--right behind the German's ear. The soldier crumpled immediately into an ungainly pile, and Richard left him, running in a low crouch towards the canal. As he entered the frigid water, he took a deep breath and went under, swimming hard.

When he had to breathe again, he let his pack carry his lower body down, and only his face emerged into the air. Breathing deeply, he let the slow current push him along while he gulped in the oxygen his muscles craved, before submerging once more and swimming far enough beneath the surface that his pack stayed underwater. He hadn't yet heard any rifle fire, and prayed it meant that none of the three of them had been spotted. One more ascent for air, a few more yards swum, and he'd reached the far side of the canal. Floating in on his belly like a corpse, he kept his head turned to the side so he could breathe and to try and spot May or Clarkson in the darkness. When nothing moved, he slowly turned his head to the other side, and again looked down the pock-marked bank. After a few moments, he caught faint movement from the water up onto the mud about fifteen yards down. Gritting his teeth, hoping that after everything he wasn't about to deliver himself straight into the Germans' arms, Richard crawled on his stomach down towards where he'd seen the movement. When his greeting of two soft clicks and a faint whistle was returned, he hurriedly wormed over to where May was sprawled, once more impersonating a corpse. A brief lift of his head revealed Clarkson on May's other side.

"Glad you could make it," May breathed. "Nice night for a swim, eh?"

"Lovely," Richard agreed, reaching over to clasp May's shoulder in utter relief. "Crawl to the top, and let's see what we can see. Fritz was patrolling their side, so with any luck we're on friendly soil, but keep your head down and move slowly, or they'll be able to pick us off one by one. We're not home free yet, chaps. Clarkson, have you had enough chance to rest, or do you need a bit longer?"

"What I need is a cup of tea and a shot of morphine, not necessarily in that order," Clarkson said, keeping his voice as low as the other two had. "Let's go and find them."

"Right. Spread out," May said, and he moved straight ahead, working his way slowly up the embankment.

 

Jeremy closed his eyes, trying to gird himself for what was sure to be a painful climb up the rise. He wasn't about to admit to his fear that he wouldn't be able to move even once more, let alone all the way up and over, then however far they needed to travel on the other side. His left leg hung uselessly behind him, unable to catch a foothold in the climb, and he'd never hurt so much nor been so exhausted in his entire life. Still, he'd never given up before and he wasn't about to start now. Not when so much was on the line.

He bit at his lip as he pushed himself forward, trying to keep any sounds to a minimum, but he couldn't stop them entirely. Every time he reached up and pulled, his arm and shoulder burned, and with his left leg simply hanging, his right leg was taxed double when he pushed up. He tried to bend it and, stomach roiling, he released it again, blinking away the dizziness of the pain.

He chanced a look up and, in the patch of moonlight that showed through the clouds, he could see May reach the top of the embankment and slip over. Jeremy was certain that Hammond was not far behind May, and he leaned his forehead against the damp soil and released a sobbing breath, staying still until the clouds once again covered the moon.

 

Slithering over the rough edge of the embankment, Richard looked down the rise and then pushed himself backwards to settle in beside May.

"I think Clarkson's had it," he said, sighing. "He's still pretty far down by the water. He must be having trouble climbing with that leg of his; he's had to push it too far. We don't have much time; whilst you two were taking the waters, I had to take care of a sentry. I'm afraid it won't be too much longer before he's found and this whole sector is lit up."

"Hammond, we can't just leave him down there."

"If we're going to go down there again, James, we're going to have to go now and we'll not be able to hide ourselves. One of us will have to take his arms, the other will be underneath him to support the bad leg and boost the good one. They _will_ see us and they _will_ shoot at us, and it might be that none of us get out of this alive."

May heaved a heavy sigh. "We have to _try_."

Richard nodded and swung himself back over the edge. "I'll get his legs then. Quick as you can, May," he said as he started shambling down the embankment. It only took him seconds to reach the clearly exhausted Clarkson. "Need a hand, mate?"

Clarkson's head jerked up. "What are you doing here? You'll get us all killed!"

"Got to get you up top, old man," Richard replied as he got beneath Clarkson. He arranged his right shoulder under Clarkson's good leg and pushed up as May grabbed Clarkson's outstretched arms.

Suddenly, there were shouts across the canal as the sentry Richard had immobilised was found.

"Oh, _cock_ ," May bit out as he pulled harder. They had no more time to get themselves over the lip of the rise than what it took for the Germans to find and send up a star shell before they were seen and killed.

Working as quickly as they could, they got Clarkson over the top of the embankment.

"It isn't over yet," Richard said urgently. "We've got to get to those shrubs and I mean now."

They crawled towards the tattered, low-lying bushes as quickly as they could, May and Richard pulling Clarkson by his arms the last few feet. His left leg was still hanging out when they heard the launch of the star shell.

"Sorry, mate," Richard whispered, as he pulled Clarkson's leg into the cover of the bushes.

Clarkson bit through his lower lip as he was racked with pain. A moment later he rolled onto his side and began to heave, spewing out bile.

The star shell exploded, the magnesium flare lighting up the sky as Richard and May did their best to brace Clarkson and hold him still. They did have the cover of the shrubbery, but Richard didn't know if it was enough. Before the light had drifted to earth on its parachute, another flare was fired, this time a bit further back and from behind them.

"Yes," Richard hissed, clenching his fist. "Bless whichever unit is fucking with Fritz right now! They'll think it's a raiding party and stay concentrated on their side of the canal."

May sighed softly, releasing Clarkson's now limp form and carefully raising himself to have a look. There were Germans teeming around the bank, guns at the ready as they searched the area, crouched down so as to not attract the attentions of the non-existent raiding party. Luckily for the three Allies, their own footprints had long been obliterated.

"They've bought it," May said, shaking his head as he lowered himself back to the ground.

"Excellent," Richard replied, his hand gently patting Clarkson on his uninjured shoulder. "Don't you worry, Clarkson. With Fritz occupied trying to flush out a fake raiding party, we'll get you to a Dressing Station in no time."

"Don't think I can go further than this." Even Clarkson's voice was weak.

"Nonsense," May said, dismissing his fears. "We'll not be leaving you behind, haven't you got that through your scuffed-up skull yet?"

"We're too close to getting to our division, damn it. We'll fucking carry you if we have to," Richard put in, clenching his hand into a fist, feeling an odd anger rising in his chest.

"It may well come to that," Clarkson muttered, sounding appalled and humiliated by his infirmity.

"We can do it," May said firmly. "Trust us, all right?"

Clarkson looked between the two of them. "You're mad. That's like a--a hamster and a guinea pig dragging a gorilla around, for fuck's sake, how in the world--"

" _Hamster_?" Richard squeaked, incensed. "You utter cock!"

 

James snickered quietly at the outrage on Hammond's face. The Germans having been taken in by the star shell ruse, he decided he and Hammond could work their way back to the ruined trench about twenty yards behind them and see what they could scrounge up to fashion some sort of temporary stretcher. Clarkson was too far gone to walk out, even with one of them under each shoulder, so a stretcher it would have to be; his height precluded any other way. "Hammond and I will cobble together a litter and carry you out," he explained, injecting confidence into his voice. "Stay here. We'll be back in a jiff."

"Not like I can go anywhere," Clarkson grumbled, but relief was writ plain on his face.

Hammond, despite the 'hamster' comment, nonetheless gave Clarkson's shoulder another firm squeeze. "Lucky for us. Who knows what trouble you'd get us into otherwise?" He shrugged his pack off his shoulders and put it under Clarkson's head, then gestured to James to precede him.

James nodded and crawled back from the tattered shrubs towards the remains of the shell-bombed trench, knowing Hammond was following closely in his tracks. He slid down into the mud, shattered duckboards and dugouts, debris, and bodies. In another day or two when things had settled down and the stalemate with the enemy resumed, both sides would collect their dead and bury them in mass graves, but for now the stench was overwhelming.

 

Richard slid down to land lightly on his feet beside May. "Bloody hell," he muttered, looking up and down the ditch. "Right, what are you thinking? Duckboards for rails, but what for the sling?"

"We might get lucky and find a blanket or tarpaulin from the dugouts, but if not, we'll have to collect a greatcoat. Maybe two--Clarkson's a big oaf."

Richard made a face. "The things we do for our mates."

May glanced at him, but gave him a half-smile. "Indeed. Why don't you start the frame; I'll see if I can find something _not_ currently being worn by these poor sods."

Richard collected a number of the longer pieces of wooden rails strewn about. Duckboards were nothing more elaborate than planks of wood nailed to these support timbers to create raised walkways through the mud and slime that lined the bottom of the trenches in wet weather--which had seemed to be all year in this part of the Somme. In many places they were downright essential; men had been known to fall into the mud and not be able to free themselves from its sucking grasp, drowning in the mire where they fell.

Richard chose the two rails that looked the sturdiest and were nearest in length, and set them to the side. Only a few minutes later, May returned with a somewhat tattered piece of oilcloth and a muddy, bloody British greatcoat.

"Don't ask," he said, settling on the other side of the wood from Hammond. "Let's just get this contraption rigged and get the hell out of here."

They worked together, and within a few more minutes, they had what they hoped would be a serviceable litter.


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy had stayed almost exactly as they'd left him, unable to manage much beyond painful crawling by himself. The only difference was that now he was holding a Webley pistol up, his grip wavering.  
  
"Put that down before you take out the shrubbery, you fucking twat," Hammond said, shaking his head.  
  
Jeremy's eyes closed as he took his finger off the trigger and set the gun down as carefully as he could. "Thought you chaps might have been diverted."  
  
"We told you we wouldn't leave you behind," May said, without heat.  
  
"That's not what I meant," Jeremy objected. "Even if you'd been found by friendlies, they would have wanted you to go back with them, not have to follow you up here to get my old carcass."  
  
"Well, lucky for you, then, we weren't diverted. It just took us a bit to cobble together a stretcher for you," Hammond said, gesturing at the litter as May dragged it over.  
  
Jeremy eyed it, opened his mouth and then thought better of it. Instead he said, "I'll just roll onto it, shall I?"  
  
"It would be best if you could, but we also know the leg has got to be hurting you, so we can move you if you'd rather," May replied.  
  
Jeremy swallowed loudly. "Let me try it first."  
  
"Or you roll and we push it under you same time," Hammond suggested.  
  
"All right," Jeremy agreed, dread of the whole endeavour curling sourly in his belly. "On three, then. One, two... _three_ \--" On three, he rolled his left side up so that May could slide the edge of the litter under him, and then pushed himself sideways with his good leg until he was all the way on it. He heard a low groaning noise, and it took him several moments until he realised it was he himself making the sound. He clapped his hand over his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to try and block it. "S-sorry, chaps," he panted, a few moments later.  
  
Hammond and May shared a look of concern. "You've nothing to apologise for," May said firmly. "We'll have you to the medics in no time. They keep all the good drugs for whingers like you."  
  
"Promises, promises," Jeremy said through clenched teeth.  
  
"This is going to hurt, man; I'm terribly sorry, but there's nothing for it." Hammond said, then swore explosively. "Fuck! If only I had some morphine in my pack!"  
  
"I know," Jeremy replied, gripping the rails of the ersatz stretcher. "Just get on with it."  
  
Hammond grabbed the back of the makeshift litter and May the front. They lifted as quickly as they could and both winced at Jeremy's groan of pain. As Hammond had said, though, there was nothing for it, so they began to move as best they could over the uneven ground, trying not to jostle the wounded man too much.  
  
  
  
Richard ducked as Clarkson pulled out his Webley again, brandishing it with a wavering flourish, and he made a grab for it. Clarkson refused to give it up, announcing, "If anything comes up behind, I can shoot at them."  
  
" _I'm_ coming up behind!" Richard protested, flinching every time the muzzle of the gun wandered past his nose. "Put it down, goddammit."  
  
"I'm the senior officer here--" Clarkson said stubbornly, ignoring the indignant noises from the other two, "--so you'd better follow my orders. I'm keeping my pistol, and I'm watching your backs. Fritz won't sneak up on you as long as Jez Clarkson's on watch."  
  
Richard rolled his eyes. "For fuck's sake, you giant oaf, keep it in hand if it makes you feel better, but stop waving it about!" He was relieved to see Clarkson relax his arm, resting it on the stretcher. He just hoped the idiot didn't drop the pistol into the mud in his exhaustion--they'd never find it again, and the stark reality was that they might still have need of it. As he'd pointed out earlier, they were far from home free. He was concerned they hadn't come across any Allies yet, but kept his misgivings to himself; at least they hadn't run into any Germans, either.  
  
  
  
For the next half-hour, Hammond and May slogged through the mutilated landscape, hauling Jeremy on his stretcher closer and closer to medical attention. Finally, though, Hammond had to call a halt for a rest, his arms visibly trembling from the effort of carrying Jeremy's sixteen-odd stone over such difficult terrain. He and May put the litter down as gently as they could, and Hammond collapsed beside him, massaging his arms. "What do they feed you at that fancy aerodrome of yours, anyway?" he teased Jeremy, who was feeling embarrassed and irritable and bullish. "Cream teas and beef Wellington, I'll wager."  
  
"With buttered peas and cakes for pudding," May added, sprawling heedlessly on the muddy ground to rest.  
  
Jeremy threw his good arm over his eyes. "No one eats buttered peas for pudding," he grumbled, trying to let them jolly him out of his mortification. "Eggs and sausages for breakfast, though."  
  
"I could eat a dozen rashers right now," Hammond moaned, clapping a hand to his stomach. "Two dozen."  
  
"I could eat an entire _goose_ with nothing more than my bare hands," May said almost dreamily. "With mash and gravy. Who wants iron rations?"  
  
Jeremy groaned a weak laugh.  
  
"I'd eat my own boots right now," Hammond said with a mournful little sigh. "Crack 'em open, May."  
  
After a moment, May sat up and dug out the package. Tearing open the waterproof wrappings of the so-called emergency rations, he tossed the tin of bully beef over to land on Hammond's stomach. "Can you pull your knife trick on that one? I always muck it up." He opened the flat pack of biscuits and handed one to Jeremy. "Here, have that for starters; there's another one left for pudding."  
  
Jeremy took the biscuit and chewed slowly at one corner. His mouth was parched, but he knew they didn't have much water left. No point in wasting any of it on a walking corpse. He knew he was done for; he could see it in their eyes. Stubborn bastard Tommies would never hear of leaving him behind, though, he knew that as well, and his gratitude nearly choked him.  
  
  
  
Richard opened the tin of bully beef and ate half before passing it over to May. He felt bad in not giving any to Clarkson, but Clarkson wouldn't need it for energy like he and May would, and that had to be the priority right now. Whilst May wolfed down his half of the meat, Richard went for the second biscuit.  
  
"Here," Clarkson said, breaking off the corner he'd eaten from and holding the rest out to Richard. "You'll need it more than I will."  
  
"Clarkson..."  
  
"I think we all know that I'm..." he trailed off. "That I can't hold much down after earlier. Besides, I'm not doing any of the work, am I?"  
  
Richard looked away from Clarkson's direct gaze. He couldn't bring himself to say anything more on the subject either. He took the biscuit and handed the whole one over to May, who took it also without saying a word.  
  
They ate quickly and stayed down for another fifteen minutes, resting, before Richard and May took their positions and once again lifted Clarkson between them. They didn't get very far, however, before they had to stop again.  
  
Clarkson's eyes had been closed the entire time he'd been carried, and he sighed as they set him down again. "Chaps, I think you should leave me here. Just set me in whatever shelter there is and go and find the lines."  
  
"We've already--" May began.  
  
"Yes, yes," Clarkson said impatiently, dismissing the words with a wave of his hand. "I'm not going to get any lighter and the two of you are not going to get any stronger. Find me a spot that's sheltered, leave me with the Webley and find some Allies."  
  
"And shall we take one of your tags with us to save us the trip back?" Richard demanded accusingly, rage flaring sharp and bright. "We've fucking brought you this far, don't you even _think_ about making that for naught."  
  
"And don't think I won't remember that for the rest of my life!" Clarkson snapped back, low and clipped. "The problem is that the rest of my life is going to be significantly shorter than either of yours." He paused. "I order you to go on without me."  
  
"Do you _want_ to be left out here to die alone? What if there's a chance to save you and you toss it away? For fuck's sake, Clarkson, what are you going to do? Bring us up on charges if we keep on carrying you?"  
  
"Hammond--Richard--" Clarkson tried again. He made a visible effort to control his fear. "Of course I don't _want_ to die, you fucking hamster-brain. But the odds are distinctly against me, and I don't want _you_ to die. Either of you. Not on my account."  
  
  
  
James had had enough and, vexed, he threw his hands up in the air. "Enough! That's the biggest load of limp-wristed twaddle I've heard in all my three years in the trenches," he said disgustedly. "Two blokes don't leave an injured mate behind--even less so if he's _badly_ injured! So shut your gob, you overgrown, oxygen-deprived, bullet-addled, cock-brained pillock, and let us get on with it!"  
  
Clarkson gaped at the previously mild-mannered James. He glanced at Hammond in shock, but one look at Clarkson's face sent Hammond into paroxysms of laughter, which he quickly stifled with his fist. Clarkson cleared his throat. "At least agree that if--"  
  
James cut him off. "If you pop your clogs, we'll take your tags and go on without your sorry carcass. But that's _not going to happen_ , is that understood? If the situation gets truly dire, one of us will wait with you and the other will go on to get help. Take it or leave it, Clarkson, but that's what's going to happen, and there's not one bloody thing you can do about it, so I suggest you lie back, close your eyes, and think about getting back to your poor, long-suffering wife, though why she'd want you back is more than I can fathom." He glared at Clarkson, and when the other man meekly closed his eyes and resettled himself on the stretcher, James shot Hammond a tight grin. "Shall we, old chap?"  
  
Hammond was still laughing, his sleeve jammed over his mouth, but there was a frantic light in his eye that James had seen before.  
  
"Steady, man," he murmured, taking a few steps to crouch beside Hammond, and gripped the dark head between his two hands. "Steady, now. We'll just get the old man to safety, let the doctors patch him up, and then we'll have a bit of a rest, eh?"  
  
"A bit less of the 'old man', if you please," Clarkson croaked, and reached out his good arm to grip Hammond's tunic in clenched fingers. "Come on, Hammond, what are you--a hamster or a mouse?"  
  
James was surprised into a laugh, and gave Clarkson a grateful nod as Hammond made a strangled noise and raised his head. He was pale, and his hands were shaking, but he managed a shuddery, "Fuck off, Jez." One hand wrapped around Clarkson's forearm, the other around James', and he held on tightly.  
  
After a few minutes for Hammond to get his feet under him again, the two able-bodied men picked up the stretcher once more and slowly made their way in the direction of Bapaume, the division's central headquarters in the area.  
  
  
  
Twenty minutes later, they had reached a slight incline. After having been on light rations and very little sleep over the past four days, it seemed an impossibility to get up the gently sloping rise before them. James looked back at Hammond, whose shadowed eyes blinked back at him several times before Hammond bit his lip and shook his head. They set Clarkson down as gently as they could.  
  
"Why have we stopped?" Clarkson asked quietly.  
  
"There's a bit of a hill..." James replied, not really sure how to go on with the rest after his outburst earlier.  
  
"Ah. I'm too heavy."  
  
"I'm afraid so, mate. This is where one of us stays with you whilst the other goes to look for the lines. Hammond, you'll stay with Clarkson. I'll go and get help."  
  
That Hammond only nodded and sat down next to Clarkson spoke to his weariness. James looked down at Clarkson, pale but for mottled patches of red on his cheeks, his eyes still closed; it took James a moment to realise the bitter taste in his mouth came from defeat. They'd gambled and lost, and now it was time to settle the chit. He pulled himself up at that point and fought down the defeatist thoughts. It wasn't over yet; Clarkson was still alive and there was still a chance--if he could find help quickly enough. "Right. Back in a few hours, chaps."  
  
James climbed to the top of the rise and looked around, carefully taking note of his bearings and the few stricken landmarks that remained; there was no point in going for help if he couldn't lead them back here. He turned and looked down at the two he was leaving behind, and raised his hand a few inches in farewell. He saw Hammond repeat the gesture. Hitching his pack up on his shoulders, James turned and resumed the slog towards Bapaume.  
  
  
  
Richard sat for a few minutes with his head on his grubby knees, fingers automatically plucking at his puttees. Finally he raised his head, forced a smile he was far from feeling, and said, "Time to hand over the Webley, Clarkson. I'll take first watch and you get some rest." He left it unsaid that the first watch would be the only watch; Clarkson would know it as well as he did.  
  
Clarkson unclenched his fingers from around the grip, letting Richard take it from his hand. He clumsily scratched at his side. "Fucking lousy coat you've put me on, I'm bloody itchy now."  
  
"Welcome to the British Army, mate," Richard said wryly.  
  
Clarkson was silent for a bit. When he spoke, his voice was weary, raspy. "Thought I'd be all right, in the Royal Flying Corps. Up there above it all, clean petrol-scented air and a quick death if my number came up. Should've known. I don't have that sort of luck."  
  
"You've done better than you would have if you'd been down here," Richard mused, lying down with his pack under his head. "You'd have had to walk on your knees in the trenches to avoid getting your head shot off. You wouldn't have lasted a week. Are all you pilots so bloody tall?"  
  
Clarkson's laugh was no more than a breath. "There are a few of us long blokes, but no, most of them are under six foot. Still taller than you, though."  
  
Richard looked over, encouraged to see a smile on the man's face, but all he said was, "Pillock. I'll have you know I topped the height requirement by four inches."  
  
"And how much did that bribe cost you?" The smile slid from his face, though, before Richard could respond. "Hammond. Right breast pocket." His good hand came up to fumble uselessly at the button. "Letter to m' wife, and a photo. Get it for me."  
  
Richard sat up and leaned over to open the pocket, withdrawing a creased envelope. Inside it were two folded sheets of thin paper and a photograph. Leaving the letter in the envelope, he withdrew the picture and looked at it. "This your wife?" He held it where Clarkson could see it.  
  
He opened his eyes, then took the photograph between two gentle fingers and gazed at it. "That's my Francie. Pissed off as hell that I can fly and she can't. Threatened to take up ambulance driving, but the kids aren't old enough to fend for themselves, and Francie wouldn't put the family out by asking anyone else to take them. She was sorely tempted, though."  
  
Richard sat back, and despite knowing it would be better for Clarkson to be quiet and rest, he let the man talk, low and rambling. If nothing else, it might help stave off the fear that was etching lines on his grey-tinged face. "Tell me about your kids," he suggested softly, and listened to Jeremy for a long time.  
  
  
  
James swore, panting. The land had been on a steady downward slope for a while now, and the mud was getting thicker, wetter, more glutinous. More treacherous, and more exhausting to labour through. Wiping his forehead with his filthy sleeve, he once more scraped the enormous, heavy gouts of mud from his boots with his entrenching tool. Too tired to divide his attention between shaking the clay from the shovel and watching where he was going, he stumbled, slid, and then slithered into a shell hole. Quickly jamming his trench shovel into the side of the small crater to keep from sliding into the water, where he would very likely get stuck and drown, he managed to halt his descent long enough to dig his boots in.  
  
"Bollocks," he said loudly, his patience pushed beyond the breaking point. "I bloody well hate France. It's the most godforsaken, ruinous, ridiculous, _disgusting_ place I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. I _hate_ France. Loathe it. I absolutely fucking _despise_ it."  
  
He stopped abruptly, his heart in his throat, at the distinct sound of laughter coming from very near by.  
  
"Is that Lieutenant James bloody May down there?" A cheerful voice called down. James tipped his head back and was simultaneously relieved and annoyed to see, incredibly, the grinning face of a sergeant from his own unit.  
  
"Sergeant Kingston, how lovely of you to remember me."  
  
"Couldn't forget you, Lieutenant; the artillery spanners have been in a mess of a pile since you left. Miltie was ready to head out and search for you, he was that frantic to find the spanner for the eighteen pounder. He refuses to make do with anything else."  
  
"So pleased to hear I've been missed," James said dryly. "Now I'd rather like to get out of this fucking shell hole, if you don't mind."  
  
"Not at all," the Sergeant grinned, but then he grew matter-of-fact. "You wounded, Lieutenant? We can get you out of there in a jiff--"  
  
"Not wounded, no. Just bloody exhausted." James took a deep breath, let it out, and rolled onto his stomach for the climb out of the crater. As soon as he neared the broken rim, Kingston was joined by Private Baker, and between the two of them, they pulled him safely up the rest of the muddy slope and out of the shell hole. James wearily lifted his head to see Private Wentworth and Lieutenant Collishaw made up the rest of the party. "Lieutenant," he nodded at Collishaw, then said, "Thanks, chaps."  
  
"Is it just you, then May?" Collishaw asked as the two officers shook hands.  
  
"Two more I had to leave to find help quickly. Hammond and one other."  
  
"Dickson?" Kingston asked. "We've not been able to account for him yet."  
  
"I'm afraid he didn't make it. I saw him on the way out of Bourlon. No, the bloke we picked up is, of all things, an RFC pilot who was shot down. Fritz apparently gave him a miss afterwards, which is bloody hard to do seeing as he's at least six foot five and sixteen stone. Hammond and I have been carrying him on a makeshift stretcher but it got too heavy so we had to..." James realised he was babbling and shook his head. "Right. We've got a badly wounded lieutenant who will have to be carried back."  
  
"That's all right, sir," Kingston put in. "If I'd been stuck behind enemy lines with Lieutenant Hammond, I'd be a right mess as well."  
  
The men chuckled and James had to smile as well. Hammond was a favourite among the men, but he could talk some rubbish sometimes.  
  
"Right," Collishaw said, taking command of the situation. "We're patrolling against any further advances by Fritz, so we'll just divert a bit to get your men and see what's going on over on that side. We saw them toss a star shell last night; the Captain wasn't sure exactly what they were doing since we didn't have any trench-raiding parties out, but we figured we'd send up one of our own. I'm assuming they've probably kept to themselves after that."  
  
"They were looking for us," James said, sighing as they turned back around and headed back in the direction he'd come. "Hammond had to take out a sentry in order for us to make our crossing of the canal. When you threw up that flare, you saved our lives. I've no doubt about that."  
  
"Well, you know us, sir, we live to serve," Baker said, chuckling.  
  
"At least you live, Baker, that's good enough for me."  
  
  
  
James led them towards where he'd left Hammond and Clarkson. He missed them by a bit--a fact which surprised none of his fellow West Yorkies--but after a brief stop and a determined study of the landscape, James managed to back-track and find them only a few minutes later.  
  
Hammond looked up, utter relief writ plain on his face. "Time to wake up," he said cheerfully, giving Clarkson's uninjured shoulder a gentle poke. "Salvation is at hand. Collishaw, I see you found May and took him in for me. Poor bastard couldn't find England with a map and a compass; frankly, I hadn't expected to be found anytime this week."  
  
"Good to see you, too, Hammond," Collishaw chuckled.  
  
"Clarkson," Hammond said again, gently squeezing this time.  
  
Clarkson's eyes barely opened, and James wondered how far gone the man was at this point.  
  
"Christ, sir," Wentworth exclaimed, "is he worth the carry back?"  
  
"Yes, he is, _Private_ ," Hammond hissed, glaring at Wentworth. "He's made it this far and he'll do just fucking fine as soon as you stop gawping and get him to a doctor."  
  
Wentworth looked abashed, but he still glanced at Collishaw for confirmation. Collishaw nodded and the two privates moved to pick up the makeshift litter.  
  
James saw that Clarkson roused slightly as the stretcher was lifted, and he moved to his side. "Hang in there, Jezza, mate. You'll be in the hands of the medics in no time."  
  
"Better their hands than...than yours," Clarkson mumbled. "They've got...morphine. You've got...fake meat. Where's Hamster?"  
  
As James grinned down at Clarkson, Hammond scrambled to his feet. "You said you wouldn't call me that in front of the others, you lying bastard," he complained. "Obviously I can carry you further than I can trust you."  
  
Clarkson's face twitched with a ghost of a smile. "Got my letter?"  
  
"Yes, I have it," Hammond said, patting his tunic breast pocket. "But you can give it to Francie yourself when you get back to Blighty, stubborn git that you are."  
  
Collishaw cleared his throat and with a sly grin said, "All right, Hamst--I mean, Hammond, let's get your mate home, shall we?"  
  
Hammond groaned loudly. "I knew it. I _knew_ it! Clarkson, you're going to live to regret that." He gripped Jeremy's good hand in his, giving it a brief but tight squeeze. "Do you hear me? You're going to live to regret that."  
  
Clarkson's laugh was weak but audible, and after a moment, both James and Hammond began to chuckle as well.  
  
They stayed near the stretcher as the party made its slow, laborious way through the crater-strewn mud towards their company. As they walked, James, Hammond, Collishaw, and Sergeant Kingston filled each other in on the happenings immediately after the battle at Bourlon Wood, trying to determine how James and Richard had been left in the shattered remains of the wood. There was no real solution to the problem of men being left behind after an attack and retreat; there was too much chaos and terror, too much gunfire and shellfire, too many bodies strewn on the ground. Worst of all, communication beyond a shout to those within hearing distance was impossible.  
  
Clarkson cleared his throat, and though his voice rasped, he managed, "May was prob'ly too busy looking for a...a shellhole with no bodies in. Fastidious twat. Din't realise...everyone else was pulling back."  
  
"Ha bloody ha," James said dryly. "I didn't hear any complaints about my fastidiousness when you were eating those nice clean biccies."  
  
After a while, the men all fell silent; it was too hard a slog through the mire to waste breath on idle conversation. Richard and James, though, took turns speaking briefly with Clarkson, keeping him conscious and aware without taxing him further.  
  
  
  
When they finally reached the temporary headquarters at the rear, the party headed immediately to the Advanced Dressing Station. Clarkson was set down on the ground next to the sandbags that surrounded the entrance to the dugout, and Richard crouched beside him. "Bet you a quid you'll be on the next ship for England," he grinned.  
  
"I'll take that bet," Clarkson mumbled, and Richard's grin faded as he realised the man didn't believe he'd be going anywhere but in the ground.  
  
"Doctor Wilman, we've got one for you," Kingston said as the doctor came up out of the dugout to take a look at the soldier that had been brought to him.  
  
Wilman's eyebrow rose as he glanced down at Clarkson. "He surely wasn't in the trenches; Christ, he'd have had his head shot off."  
  
"RFC. Shot down," Clarkson said hoarsely. "Now are you going to give me some fucking morphine or will I have to get it myself?"  
  
"I'd like to see you try," Wilman said with a snort. One glance at Clarkson's leg, and then Richard's face, though, had him barking orders even as he headed straight back into the dugout. "Bring him in--put him on table two."  
  
Richard and May, determined to see Clarkson through as far as they could, carried him in and the entire stretcher was laid on the glorified sawhorse that served as an examination table. Quarters were cramped in the narrow, low dugout, however, and they were quickly shooed back outside to make room for the two doctors and three medics that immediately gathered over Clarkson. Richard, one foot on the rough steps out, turned back to call, "He's a bloody stubborn bastard and likely the world's worst patient, but do your best anyway."  
  
One of the medics leaned over Clarkson, then looked up at Richard with a grin. "He says fuck you, too, sir."  
  
Richard climbed out of the dugout to find Lieutenant Collishaw had already waved his men back towards their unit. "Got a fag?" he asked. When Collishaw handed several cigarettes each to both him and May, Richard tucked one behind his ear, put one in the tin in his breast pocket, and the last went between his lips. He tried to light it with the lucifer May handed him, but his hands were shaking so badly, he burned himself with the flame and dropped it, swearing.  
  
"Here," May murmured, lit another of the matches with his thumbnail, and held it out.  
  
Richard lit his fag, not meeting May's eyes.  
  
"Do either of you need medical attention?" Collishaw asked, his gaze flicking back and forth between them.  
  
"No," Richard answered sharply, and leaned against one of the sandbag walls.  
  
May shook his head as well. "No, we're fine. Just need a bit of sleep. It's surprising how hard it is to catch a few winks when you're on Fritz's side of the lines."  
  
Collishaw smiled grimly. "Of that I have no doubt. Come with me, I'll show you where Colonel Fulton has set up shop; you can report in and he'll likely give you a forty-eight hour pass. You can go to the baths and then sleep it off in Amiens."  
  
"No," Richard immediately said, shaking his head. "I have to stay here. Need to make sure Clarkson's going to make it."  
  
Collishaw's eyebrow rose. "You've done all you can do, Hammond. It's time to let the doctors look after him, and for you to report in."  
  
Fear rose in Richard's chest, nearly choking him. He knew it was illogical, but he also knew with utter certainty that if he wasn't there to look out for him, Jeremy would die. "No, I'm staying here." He took a long draw on his fag.  
  
May drew him to the side. "Hammond," he said quietly. "We can't linger for long."  
  
"I can't leave until I know what Wilman says about Jez," Richard hissed, his shaking hand clutching May's forearm tightly. "I have to stay here, James. I have to."  
  
May gripped Richard's shoulder. "All right. You stay; I'll go and report in to Fulton. I'll make it sound like you're getting a scratch patched up, or something. Once he's given me our orders, I'll come back and get you. But Richard--" May gave him a little shake, "--we may not get leave. If we don't, we'll have no choice but to get back into the line."  
  
Richard nodded rapidly, eager to agree to a solution that would allow him to remain near Clarkson for at least a little longer. "Yeah, I know. Okay, you go and let 'em know we're alive, and I'll stick with Jez. I'll be here. Come find me when you're done."  
  
"I will. And Hammond..." May trailed off, then simply said, "I'll be back soon."  
  
  
  
As James followed Collishaw to report in to their commanding officer, he wondered what had passed between Hammond and Clarkson whilst they'd waited for him to return. Obviously they'd talked, made some sort of connection. But he also knew that Hammond was walking the ragged edge right now, and his fear for Clarkson could well be paranoia finding a superstitious outlet. Either way, James hoped that both his mates would turn out all right.  
  
After reporting in and--true to Collishaw's guess--receiving leave, James headed back towards Hammond. He knew it could be hours yet before any word came back on Clarkson, but he'd got the impression that Hammond wasn't about to leave the area, not even to get as clean as one possibly could at the front, until he had some news. And frankly, James didn't want to leave his mate alone any longer than he had to right now. He found Hammond exactly where he'd been when James had left, the fag long spent, his fingers tapping out unknown melodies on his soiled uniform.  
  
"Hammond."  
  
"May. What's the word, then?"  
  
"We have forty-eight hours leave, mate, but we're supposed to head for Amiens."  
  
"And we can, just as soon as I collect the quid that Clarkson will owe me for surviving."  
  
"Richard--"  
  
"No, James, you weren't there to hear him talk about his wife and family, so you don't know how fucking _important_ this is. He thinks he's going to die--he's so fucking sure of it that he's practically given up already--and if... Fuck, this sounds as if I'm crazy, I know it does, but if I--we--leave him now, he won't make it."  
  
James didn't know what exactly to think about that, but for Hammond's peace of mind, he settled down on the sand bag and struck another lucifer to light up a cigarette, holding it out for Hammond as well. They both took deep pulls on their fags before James sighed.  
  
"He's going to make it, Richard. He's come too far to give up now."  
  
"You didn't see him, mate. He doesn't believe that. He needs us to believe it _for_ him, until he wakes up."  
  
"Then that is exactly what we shall do," James replied, laying his hand briefly on Hammond's shoulder. Hammond looked over at him and nodded.  
  
  
  
As news spread of their removal from the list of missing men, soldiers from their unit who were passing during the course of their duties came to find them and chat, keeping both exhausted men awake and aware until one of the medics poked his head up the stairs.  
  
"Surgery's over and he's still with us," he reported, having been told the two men were waiting to hear the fate of their friend.  
  
"And his leg?" Richard asked, scrambling to his feet.  
  
"We did as he asked and cut out the necrotic tissue rather than amputating, but I have to tell you, Lieutenant, I think it's going to wind up coming off in the end. That'll be for the surgeons at Étaples, though. He's being transferred there in the morning, if he's still alive."  
  
"Can we talk to him?"  
  
"Bloody hell, mate, he won't wake up for hours yet. Likely not until tonight, in fact." He disappeared back into the dugout.  
  
Richard's stomach twisted. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, feeling lost. He started when May dropped an arm over his shoulders.  
  
"Come on, Hammond," he said bracingly. "Let's go and get that bath and clean uniform, maybe some egg and chips. We'll sack out for the night, then get back here first thing in the morning to catch Clarkson before he's shipped off."  
  
Richard nodded jerkily, and stood, following May, hoping desperately that during the night Clarkson would continue to prove as stubborn as he had been up to this point.  
  
  
  
The estaminet wasn't very full, a fact which James appreciated greatly. He and Hammond were digging into their egg and chips, a bottle of cheap, probably watered-down wine open between them. They were both silent for a while, concentrating on eating the fresh, plain food to assuage the worst of their hunger pains. In the trenches one got used to eating quickly, and it was a hard habit to break.  
  
Finally James slowed down. Hammond was still shovelling the food in at a prodigious rate, so James waved at the older French woman who ran the small café, pointing to their plates in a request for a bit more. She nodded and turned back to the open stove.  
  
James sighed contentedly and drank some of the wine. "God, but it feels good to be clean again. I've never been so glad to see a brewer's vat in my life, and that's saying something."  
  
Hammond grinned at him and spoke around a mouthful. "I never thought I'd see the day when _you_ shared dirty bathwater with five other men. Oh, how the mighty have fallen."  
  
James snorted. "Needs must when the devil drives, Hammond. And the devil most certainly drives in this bloody place."  
  
There was a sudden sharp, clanging rattle as several pots were knocked off a shelf by a rather soused sergeant in a kilt, and Hammond jumped as if he'd been shot. When he realised what had happened, he leapt to his feet, his eyes dark and his hands clenched into fists. "What the fuck are you playing at, you gormless goddamned pissant?" he shouted at the Highlander, shoving his chair back.  
  
"Hammond-- _Richard_ ," James barked swiftly, half rising out of his own chair. When Hammond's wild glare met his gaze, James pointed at the chair and ordered, "Sit. Down. _Now_." He waited, nearly holding his breath, to find out if this was the snapping point.  
  
Hammond stared at him, and then, a shudder going through his body, dropped into the chair. He raked a visibly trembling hand through his hair. "Christ," he muttered. " _Christ_."  
  
James refilled the battered tin cup that Hammond was drinking from and pushed it across the table to him. He waited until Richard had picked it up before rising and going over to the proprietress. He paid her for their food and drink, and thanks to his rudimentary French and some hand signs, managed to get their second helping of chips wrapped in newspaper. Returning to Hammond, he stood by the table, drained his own cup of wine, and quietly said, "Let's go. It's not far to our billet."  
  
Hammond trailed outside after him, then leaned against the side of the building, his hands in his hair. "I don't know what just happened in there," he whispered.  
  
"We're tired," James said, wanting to get them both somewhere quieter before continuing the conversation.  
  
Hammond laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose that's one way of putting it."  
  
James squeezed Hammond's shoulder. "Come on. There's actual beds we can sleep in tonight. No standing watches."  
  
"Don't know what I'll do with myself," Hammond mumbled as they started walking again.  
  
"Probably sleep right on through," James smiled. "Let's go and see if we remember how the hell to do that."  
  
It didn't take them long to reach their billet--two small cots in a cramped attic above a closed-up shop--and hand over their paperwork to the owner. They were lucky this time; their last billet, alongside eight other men, had been some mostly clean straw in a stable. At least the bodies and the thin horse in the stall next to them had helped keep the air warm.  
  
They sat on their beds to eat the food they'd brought from the estaminet, although Hammond ate considerably less than James would have liked, picking at the food he'd been shovelling in before. He said nothing, deciding to see how Hammond was tomorrow after a solid night's sleep.  
  
  
  
Richard pulled his coat tighter around himself in the early morning chill. He and May had got up early to catch a supply cart back to the lines so they could see Clarkson off on the small, horse-drawn railway to Étaples. They sat on the remains of a stone wall, all that was left of the old post office, judging by the battered sign in the rubble.  
  
Richard was anxious to get going. Where the fuck was the supply cart? If they missed seeing Clarkson, he'd never forgive himself. If the man was even still alive, of course. His foot began to jiggle, and he chewed on the edge of his thumb. A moment later, he hopped off the wall and began to pace.  
  
"What happened out there, Hammond?" May asked quietly, and Richard looked over to see a look of grave concern on his face.  
  
"What? Where?" He looked around, trying to determine what May had seen.  
  
"Bourlon Wood."  
  
Richard flinched. He resumed pacing. "You bloody well know what happened. It was a fucking disaster."  
  
"I mean--" May paused, and then let out a heavy sigh. "I mean what happened to _you_? What was it, Richard?"  
  
He turned his back on May, staring unseeingly down the road, willing the cart to appear. "Much the same as happened to you, I should imagine."  
  
"I know full well that that's not true. Tell me."  
  
Some men went numb after a while, Richard knew. They'd told him so. He desperately wished he would go numb; as dreadful as it would be, it would still be a thousand times better than this anxious, noxious fear that had been growing steadily ever since the horrors in the Wood. The sounds were especially unnerving, becoming more disturbing by the day despite the fact that his hearing was half what it used to be, thanks to the artillery. The sounds of shells (he knew what type by the whine they made in the air), of Lewis guns and rifles and Mills bombs and trench mortars and men's cries as they were wounded, as they lay dying, blood bubbling from their mouths, the glutinous mud sucking them under, crying for their mothers, their sweethearts, for the Mother of God--  
  
" _Hammond._ " May spoke sharply, urgently, although he hadn't moved from his position on the wall.  
  
Richard jerked back to the present, breathing as hard as if he'd run all the way from Bourlon Wood. "You--you were on the end of the line."  
  
"Yes. Closer to Fontaine than Bourlon. You were in the Wood itself."  
  
"They gassed us. Mustard gas. Just poured it into the wood, then shelled the hell out of us. Men dived into the foxholes to escape the shrapnel, and the gas was waiting, coating everything, more pouring in every minute." Richard could see the scene in his mind; indeed, he was horribly afraid he'd never, ever forget it.  
  
"How did you escape being burned?" May asked quietly.  
  
"I stayed up on the back side of the trench. The gas sank into the low spots. I thought I'd rather take my chances with the shrapnel than risk being burned like that." He shuddered. "I shouted to the others to find a protected high spot if they could, but...instinct tells you to get low. Do you remember Dicky Price?"  
  
May was silent for a moment, then said, "Young lad, large nose?"  
  
"That's him. He slid down into the crater the mine had left behind. It had a foot of water at the bottom, and he splashed right down into it. Most of the chaps didn't start to feel the itching and burning for six or seven hours, but within an hour he was screaming. _Screaming_ , James," Richard said, his voice shaking. "Two hours after that he was coughing up yellow...slime. Then all hell broke loose and the shells were coming down in a hailstorm. Landing all around us, and it was so goddamned fucking loud, James. One hit a crater nearby, and Fred Whatley and Jimmy Brown were blown to bits right before my eyes. And the whole time the shells were exploding and the guns were thundering and Dicky Price was screaming in my ear--" He cut himself off before he started screaming himself.  
  
"You need to ask for leave, Richard," May murmured. "Rest leave in London. A month of proper sleep and food away from the front, away from the guns. You'll be all right."  
  
"I'm not asking to run home to Mummy," Richard snapped, and started pacing back and forth again. "I'm no fucking coward, May."  
  
"If anyone knows that, it's me, Hammond," May assured him. "I don't think asking for leave makes you a coward."  
  
"And you don't think anyone else in our unit needs a rest? What about Kingston or Baker, eh? Collishaw? You? We've all seen and heard horrors, May, every last man still fighting."  
  
"It's not the same and you well know it. Hammond--"  
  
"Fucking _finally_ ," Richard interjected as the _clop clop_ of horseshoes could be heard nearing them. He could feel his frustration turning to anger, and the last thing either of them needed right now was a full-out row.  
  
May tried again. "Look, mate, if you don't--"  
  
Richard whirled on him. "If you finish that sentence, I'm going to punch you right in the face. Right in the _face_ , you bloody pillock."  
  
May dropped his head, appearing to concede defeat, but Richard doubted he'd heard the last of the issue, and he turned again to watch the cart approach, muttering a string of profanities under his breath all the while.  
  
  
  
Jeremy watched them approach, and he was just conscious enough to wonder about the tension on Hammond's face. "Bloody...foot-sloggers," he managed to croak. "What're you...doing back here?"  
  
"Come to see you off, old man," Hammond said cheerfully, his voice at odds with the uneasy darting of his eyes. "Off to Étaples and then home to Blighty, eh?"  
  
"Not home...for a while. Hospital in Étaples for a month at least...so they say."  
  
May nodded. "Just want to make sure you can manage that horrifically long, dangerous, rough, twenty-mile jaunt across the Channel, soft oaf that you are."  
  
Jeremy huffed a laugh, glad they'd come to see him. "Think...they're more worried about the...horses being taxed than...the Channel at this point."  
  
"So they should be," May agreed. "You're not exactly a small bloke, you know."  
  
"Not like...Hamster."  
  
"I'll save the medics some trouble and kick you onto the cart if you call me that again," Hammond warned. "And by the way, you owe me a quid."  
  
"A quid?" Jeremy blinked slowly, trying to remember.  
  
"You took my bet yesterday that you'd survive. It was for a quid."  
  
Jeremy vaguely recalled something of the sort. "I'll have to...send it to you. When...m' pay catches up to me."  
  
Hammond immediately withdrew a stub of a pencil out of one pocket, and Jeremy's own letter out of another. Turning it over, he scribbled something on the back of the envelope, then tucked it under the shoulder of the cotton vest the medics had dressed Jeremy in for his journey. "My directions. I'm onto you, Clarkson."  
  
Jeremy wheezed a laugh. "Damn. Suppose I'll have to...actually send it...now."  
  
"Too bloody right, you will," Hammond declared. He hesitated, then gave Jeremy's shoulder a squeeze. "Take care, old man, yeah? Don't make me have to desert to come to Étaples and kick your arse."  
  
"As if you could." Jeremy met and held Hammond's eyes, but the words just wouldn't come. How did you thank a man for refusing to give up on you when you were ready to give up on yourself? "Hammond...Richard."  
  
Hammond looked touched, but uncomfortable. "Save it. When all this is over, you're taking May and me on the biggest piss-up London has ever seen."  
  
Jeremy grasped his hand as tightly as he could. "That's a...deal." He turned his head slightly. "May?"  
  
May moved closer, clasping his hand as soon as Jeremy had released Hammond's. "Clarkson," he said equably. "Do try not to annoy the nurses into smothering you with your own pillow."  
  
"Do my best," Jeremy chuckled. "Look after Hamster, eh? Make sure the git doesn't...get himself killed." He searched May's eyes, and when he saw comprehension dawn there, he sighed in relief.  
  
"Oi!" Hammond objected. "I'm right here, you know."  
  
May ignored the outburst. "Don't worry, Jez," he said, his voice even but gentle. Too low for Hammond to hear, he murmured, "I'll not let it take him down."  
  
Jeremy nodded. "Good man." Having trouble keeping his eyes open now, he mumbled, "Be careful...lads. Tell Fritz to...go and fuck himself. And I'll see you in London."  
  
His rail cart readied, two medics lifted him up onto it, and then the injured but ambulatory soldiers began to climb on. Several of them had been blinded by gas attacks, but they were all guided by a wounded man who still had his sight. Within minutes, the horses were urged to move, and the cartwheels began to turn. Jeremy turned his head, and the last thing he saw before his heavy eyelids closed was Hammond and May lifting their hands in a little wave, holding them for a long moment, then turning to walk back to the front lines.  
  
  
  
James dropped his hand, watching Clarkson disappear down the railway lines. "Come on, then, Hammond," he said quietly. "He'll be in good hands soon enough." He turned, waited for Hammond to join him, and they walked away from the Clearing Station.  
  
"You think he'll be all right?" Hammond asked, chewing on the side of his thumb.  
  
James thought about it for a moment. "I do, actually," he said slowly, nodding. "It's going to take time, and he may yet lose that leg, but he'll make it, will Jez. He's too bloody-minded not to."  
  
Hammond looked slightly reassured. "He is a stubborn bastard, it's true."  
  
James clapped him on the back. "He's not the only one. We've got nearly twenty-four hours left before we have to be back in our trench. Let's catch a lift to Amiens, get some nosh, and sleep for about eighteen of those hours, shall we?"  
  
Hammond sighed and then nodded. "Yeah, let's do that. I'm tired, y'know?"  
  
"I know, Richard. I know. I am too."  
  
They went in search of transport, and being told there was a lorry that would be leaving within a half-hour, they sat down to have a fag or two and wait. James surreptitiously studied Hammond, who was quiet now, his eyes fixed on some obscure point in the distance. He'd promised Clarkson he'd look after Hammond, but the words hadn't truly been necessary; he'd already sworn to himself he'd see Richard through the cataclysm, if it was the last thing he ever did. Even if it meant turning him in to their C.O. as a shell-shock case. Hammond might never forgive him if he did that, but at least he'd be alive and in England, getting some treatment to bring him back to his old self. As close to his old self as he could get, anyway. None of them would ever be the same again after what they'd been through, but once they got home--  
  
"You're thinking too loudly, May. I'll be fine." Richard's voice was wry, but even.  
  
James started, and then the corner of his mouth quirked. "I know you will, Hamster." He twisted sideways, chuckling, when Hammond dug him in the side with a sharp elbow. "Fuck off, you cock."  
  
"At least I can find mine with both hands," Hammond shot back. They grinned at each other for a moment, and then turned towards the rudimentary road again to continue the wait for the lorry.  
  
This time, however, the silence was comfortable, companionable. Despite everything, James couldn't help but smile.  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/cocking_about/pic/000014qs/g1)  
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End file.
